Tāmaki Makaurau, Autumn 2021

I was invited to represent Qtopia at a meeting in Tāmaki Makaurau for the Royal Commission of Inquiry’s Report into the terrorist attack on the Al Noor Mosque and Linwood Islamic Centre in Ōtautahi. This meeting was organised by the Department of the Prime Minister and Cabinet (DPMC) to address the impacts of the terrorist attack on Queer communities.

We listened to the experiences of Queer Muslims who were invited by Rainbow Path NZ. They are an organisation dedicated to advocating, supporting, and promoting the rights of Queer refugees and asylum seekers in Aotearoa.

When it was my turn to talk, I realised that I was the only person from Ōtautahi in the room. I stood up to speak, and I started to cry as I retold my version of events.

It was an unassuming Tuesday afternoon. I was at the office in the central city, and I could not wait to go home. It was around 1:45pm when I received the first notification on my phone.

“Developing situation in Christchurch,” read the headline. “Police are responding to reports of shots fired in central Christchurch at around 1:40pm.”

Within minutes, rumours began to circulate around the office. Someone mentioned that there was a heist in the central city. Another person mentioned that there was a co-​ordinated terrorist attack making its way through the city.

“My brother told me they can hear gunshots at CPIT,” Bob told me as he watched his phone. Everything was happening in real time. “They’re currently locked in the building. He told me they’ve been asked to hide under their desks. What’s going on? Is he going to be okay?”

Owen tried to leave the building with his swipe card. The door would not budge. “I think we’re locked in as well.” Owen told us.

This was confirmed shortly after when we received an email from building services: “Our building is now in lockdown. Our advice is for everyone to stay in the building. Please refrain from leaving the building and stay away from the windows at this time.”

I found an empty meeting room to call Rakim.

“I don’t know what’s happening, but I think I’m safe where I am,” I whispered to Rakim.

“They say people are killing Muslims in Christchurch,” he told me. “Will I be safe in Ōamaru?” The next update I saw was on my Facebook feed.

“A man came into the mosque near Christchurch’s Hagley Park with an automatic rifle and shot people, a witness says. Schools are in lockdown and people are told to stay inside in the area.”

I went online and began listening to updates on Radio New Zealand from my computer. We were told that the armed offender’s squad was deployed, and they were stationed around Christchurch Hospital and all government buildings. In that moment, Bob and I burst into tears. Neither of us had ever been caught amidst an active shooter situation. We did not know what to do or how to react.

“There’s a wedding party locked in with us in the building,” Owen informed me. We had a chapel in the foyer of the building for officiating marriages.

“What bar stocks do we have?” I asked Owen as I came to grips with our current situation. I was the president of the social club in the building, and we had the most resources available. We could be locked in the building indefinitely. “Whatever food, drinks, or alcohol we have, let’s distribute it among the floors of the building we have access to –​ especially the wedding party. I think we all deserve a drink to process what’s going on.”

We were finally let out of the building at around six o’clock in the evening. We were told to evacuate the city centre immediately. There was no public transport as it was being diverted from the city centre. Bob took me back to his home. His mum brought us some sausage rolls as we watched Adventure Time in the guest room. Neither of us had any appetite.

All it took was 12 minutes for a terrorist to take the lives of 51 innocent people. This event exposed the underbelly of white supremacy in Ōtautahi and Aotearoa.

“Have you seen the video?” Becky, my flatmate, asked me as I walked through the door when I finally got home at around 9 o’clock.

“Why would anyone want to watch that?” I replied in disgust. The first question she asked me was whether I had watched the livestream of the shooting. She sent a copy of the manifesto to our flat chat. I immediately deleted the message from my phone. Hate speech does not deserve a platform. I went to my room, and I crashed on my bed. I called Rakim to tell him that I was safe.

“Will this happen in Ōamaru? Will this happen to me?” Rakim asked me.

“I don’t know.” I did not know what else to tell him. “I think you should avoid coming to Christchurch for the next few weeks.”

“I don’t want to come to Christchurch anymore. I don’t want to be around white people,” Rakim told me. I understood his position.

As I recalled my experiences, the public servants in the room looked shocked and visibly uneasy. It dawned on me that the Queer experience in Tāmaki Makaurau and Te Whanganui-​a-​

Tara was vastly different from those in Ōtautahi. We were invisible.

“I’m sorry,” the commissioner responded. “We haven’t considered the relevance this event has had on Ethnic Rainbow communities.”

Ōtautahi, Spring 2022

As I continued to co-​chair Qtopia, I struggled to see myself as a community advocate or activist. I did not feel like I had the right academic foundation, the policy expertise, or the established relationships many Queer advocates and activists had curated over time. There were also times when I felt like an imposter, like I did not belong.

I still remember one strategy day when we were discussing education and development opportunities to upskill our board members. A former board member who was then affiliated to a prominent Queer organisation mentioned that there was an upcoming international conference that would be a great place to network with other Queer advocates and activists.

“We have scholarships on offer to attend this conference,” he offered to the group. “I’m happy to provide people with a reference.”

I was intrigued by the opportunity to upskill, so I approached him after the strategy day before I was quickly shut down.

“I don’t think your voice is necessarily what we need right now,” he told me blankly.

“If my voice is not necessarily what is needed, then why am I wasting my time here?” I thought to myself bitterly.

When I first entered the non-​profit governance space, I held the naive view that I would be directly supporting our communities. Instead, I spend a majority of my time pandering to funders like central and local government agencies so our staff and volunteers could provide their support services without distraction. One thing that is not mentioned enough in non-​profit governance is the amount of work needed to maintain our legal status as a charity.

We would spend countless hours working through funding applications, charitable returns, and financial audits when we could be using our time and energy to develop services. I understand that the purpose of these checks and balances is to ensure transparency, but the amount of scrutiny charitable organisations is under seems excessive considering the little funding we receive. I went from being paid as a public servant to process these forms to just being a member of the public doing this voluntarily.

Beyond the copious amounts of bureaucratic hurdles, I struggled with the amount of jargon needed to understand what was going on during a board meeting. I had no idea what people meant when we had to go “in committee” or why we had to “make a motion”. We were also expected to act professionally, or be kind, and speak of safe spaces. At times, I truly wondered whether these processes were put in place to exclude people from being able to support their communities without the right resources or the right connections.

As fate would have it, that meeting organised by the DPMC placed me on the radar of other Queer organisations. More importantly, I had the rare opportunity to connect with Queer non-​white tauiwi (non-​Māori) advocates. For the lack of better terminology, we were beginning to rally under the broad Queer Ethnic or Ethnic Rainbow banner. We recognised that we were a diverse group of Queer people from ethnic, migrant, or former refugee backgrounds.

I was truly fortunate to speak with one Queer Ethnic advocate candidly about my experience of trying to navigate this non-​profit service provision space. I still remember when they told me quite clearly, “Professionalism is just shorthand for whiteness.” A similar process of racialisation was also occurring in the governance of our Queer communities –​ if it is even possible to govern a community that is fluid, inclusive, undefined, and ever-​evolving. I now know why I had to modify my behaviour to be palatable in these governance spaces. As a racialised Queer person, I was once again expected to assimilate with the dominant norms of Pākehā whiteness.

What I remember most distinctly from the DPMC meeting was the lack of Queer Muslim attendees at the meeting. This was odd considering that we were there specifically to discuss the impacts of the terrorist attack on people who occupied this extremely specific intersection. Instead, Queer advocates dominated it, largely Pākehā, who had the audacity to speak on the behalf of the whole Rainbow community. We were watching the process of racialisation unfold before our eyes.

I now know why the former board member of a prominent Queer organisation told me why my voice was not necessarily needed right now. My voice was not the white voice he wanted to represent us. I am confident that I am not the only racialised Queer person who has been gate-​kept/​door-​kept from sharing our perspectives. Why do we need to benchmark our diverse Queer identities with whiteness? If we do not centre our diverse needs, we will remain invisible.

Some of those Queer advocates co-​founded the Ethnic Rainbow Alliance (ERA) so that we as a diverse community can begin to create our own spaces. Once again, I was truly fortunate that the co-​founders asked me to chair ERA. There was not much we could do to decentre whiteness in a pre-​existing organisation. What we can do is centre our perspectives at all times.

Within weeks of establishing a trust board and being registered as a charitable organisation, ironically, systems and structures grounded in whiteness –​ we were asked to provide advice to central and local government agencies.

“We want to know how we can support our Ethnic Rainbow communities,” a representative from the ministry asked me.

“I’m simply curious. Have you ever been abused in your relationships? I read some literature on high rates of domestic abuse in same-​sex relationships?”

I was stunned by her question. I answered her honestly, but I felt shameful and embarrassed as I entertained her with my misery porn. I walked away from that meeting emotionally bruised. I found a quiet booth to cry in.

“I never chose to be an advocate for our Queer communities,” I spluttered to Dan on the phone. “How can I call myself an advocate when I’m still broken?”

We are still in the early days of ERA. No one said that it would be easy. I know that it will be tough and bruising work, but I hope we can begin to see our diverse perspectives uplifted to decentre whiteness from our Queer communities in Aotearoa even if it takes one conversation at a time.

Ōtautahi, Summer 2023

Once again, it was Pride week in Ōtautahi. I was on the way to the Qtopia ball when I received a message through my direct message on Twitter. The day before, I was at the opening event where I walked alongside 700 people on Cashel Street in support of our Queer communities.

“Can you please spread this message through your networks?” the message requested. “Police and security are aware that unpleasant people might try to disrupt the Story Time, so we are not expecting to have to get in the way of them physically. We want to avoid confrontation.” “We’re looking for people to join with us at the Drag Story Time at Tūranga tomorrow to have a positive presence that counters a potentially unpleasant presence of far-​right individuals. We want to help ensure it is a safe and friendly experience for parents and children, so the goal is not to have confrontation or appear like a protest, so the intention is to keep our presence low-​key if possible.” “I think we should go tomorrow,” I told Jake as we pulled up to park. “Your friends are performing at the Drag Race Story Time, and I’m worried they might be in danger.”

I arrived at the Christchurch Art Gallery, and I watched the hundreds of Queer young people line up to enter the venue. I knew that many of these young people had been anticipating for this one night every year where they could be themselves. The Pride march from the day before had led me into a false sense of security. What was meant to be a night of Queer affirmation turned into dread as I worried what the future had in store for these young people.

The next day, Jake and I arrived at the public library neighbouring Cathedral Square to a crowd of 30 protesters. Most of them were in black and they were ready and poised with their loudspeakers and placards to direct hate at our friends who were inside reading storybooks.

“Drag Pedos Groom Kids.”

“Teach Maths not Masturbation.”

I could not believe the messages they were directing at the children and their families attending this event which was promoting diversity and inclusion. Thankfully, there was an even larger crowd of counter protesters made up of members from our Queer communities and allies from our local anti-​fascist group. Many of the Christchurch Heroes received the message from the night before and were prepared to protect our communities.

Jake and I joined the human barrier between the protesters and the venue. It was a surreal experience. I felt a sense of sadness and anger as we stood there counter protesting the far-​right extremists at Queens Telling Stories. I felt a sense of rage that I had not felt before in my life –​ not even when I had needed to harness my aggression on the rugby field.

Not long into the event, the leaders of the protesters began their sermon of hate. Some of the counter protesters wanted to engage and reason with the far-​right extremists in extended debates that went nowhere. Others printed signs saying “Dicks” with an arrow pointing at them to mock them for their misguided crusade.

“Just turn our backs to them,” the chairperson of Christchurch Pride instructed the counter protesters. “They’re narcissists. If they want a platform, let’s not give them one.”

I was seething. Jake and I were not interested in engaging. We just wanted to make sure our friends, the children, and their families were safe.

A few teenage protesters broke into the venue and briefly disrupted the event before they were escorted out of the venue. They were presumably children of the far-​right protesters. The only grooming that was happening that day was from the fascist transphobes.

Once we heard that our friends, the drag artists, and the children and their families had been safely escorted out of the library, we quickly disbanded. Our purpose was fulfilled, and we did not need to give the fascists a platform. One of the more heartwarming stories came from within the room that we had been trying to safeguard.

“Why are people mean?” one of the children at the event innocently asked our friend in drag who was reading to the children. This question was in response to the disruptive protesters who had invaded the room with their hate and bigotry.

“Well, this is because sometimes when people don’t understand something that’s different, they get mean,” my friend replied to the inquisitive group of children, “but how do we help them? With kindness and love!”

I took this as a sign there is still hope for our future generations to create a more inclusive society, but we cannot achieve this without continued support for our transgender communities.

Peace was short-​lived when we received news of a women’s rights activist group coming to Aotearoa and spreading their transphobic rhetoric in Tāmaki Makaurau and Te Whanganui-​a-​Tara. Fortunately, Ōtautahi was spared the transphobes’ crusade of hate, but this event empowered the fundamentalist church.

Within days, I received an invitation to a rally outside the Bridge of Remembrance.

“We encourage our community to rally together and if you are an ally this is your time to show your true support and allyship. Being an ally is more than just changing your logo to a rainbow or dancing at our parties. Transphobia is alive and well, this is our opportunity and responsibility to say there is no room for it here in Aotearoa!”

I sent a message to one of the organisers to see if they needed any support.

“We could do with some marshals to control the crowd,” the organiser told me. “The event has snowballed into something bigger than we expected.”

“At least now we know there’s still love in our communities,” I told him.

“You’re right,” he responded before sending through some instructions.

As I was busy wrangling marshals who were willing to help at the rally, the staff and board members of Qtopia were doing what they needed to organise health and safety and mental health first aid for what was going to be a rally of around 500 and a countless number of counter protesters from far-​right and religious fundamentalist groups.

We released funds to purchase water, snacks, and other necessary equipment. The staff also organised a sign-​making event the day before so that those most vulnerable from our communities and our young people could be involved without putting themselves in unnecessary harm –​ all this was organised with a few days’ notice.

The day before the rally, Jake and I went to the sign-​making event at the Christchurch Art Gallery before our first pre-​season game of rugby. We wanted to be there to show our support. When we arrived, the craft room was already packed. Jake did not take any time at all. He traced a heart on a placard.

I thought for a while how I wanted to express my support of our trans communities. I also wanted to make sure that someone reading my message knows that Queer Chinese people exist in Ōtautahi. And then the words struck me: 「屹立不倒」(to stand without faltering). My aspiration for our Queer communities is that will stand tall together without wavering. We will not yield to transphobia or bigotry.

Once we left our placards to dry, we said our farewells and left for Rangiora to play the Southbrook Saracens. Even though it was a friendly game, it was still incredibly tough as the team we were playing were a grade above us. I tried to focus on the rugby and tried not to think about the rally ahead of us.

After 80 minutes of intense rugby through rain and mud, I was sitting in the changing shed with the rest of the team. I was nursing my sore calf with a cold stubby of Speights. We had lost 19–​15. I was knackered.

“Well done boys, you all did much better than we expected,” the head coach congratulated us. “We’ve got a few honourable mentions, but the coaches have all decided that the player of the day goes to … Sid Dog!”

The changing shed erupted into applause as the team cheered me on. As is customary, I sculled back the beer I had in my hands. I was ecstatic. I have been learning how to play rugby for the last four years and to receive player of the day recognised how far I had come from the young person who was still one foot “out of the closet” to being a rugby player in a team of people who I had avoided my whole life.

As we made our way home, it dawned on me how much danger we would be getting ourselves into tomorrow at the rally. Just hours earlier, I had received news that far-​right protesters had arrived at the rally in Tāmaki Makaurau armed with weapons.

“I’m scared, Jake,” I confessed to Jake as we drove home. “These people really hate us. They don’t want us to exist. They’d rather we were dead.”

I felt a mix of emotions. I was both happy for being recognised as the player of the day and sad for the day that was about to come.

“I don’t want you to go. I don’t want you to get hurt,” I told Jake. “If things turn ugly, someone might get hurt or, worse, get killed.”

“I don’t either,” Jake comforted me. “That’s why I want to be there by your side.”

“I have no complaints if this was going to be the last day of my life,” I reflected to myself as I watched the cars speed past us on the motorway.

Jake and I arrived early the next day to find the Bridge of Remembrance already occupied by the fascists. We covered our hi-​vis jackets and made our way to the safety briefing for the marshals.

“Whatever you do, do not engage with the transphobes,” one of the organisers told us. “We don’t want them to have any footage they can use against us.”

“We don’t want a repeat of what’s happened in Auckland. It’s going to be a long day. They’ve seen your face now, so they know who you are. Just be safe. Make sure you’re travelling as a group.”

When the rally started, we guided young and vulnerable people to the front of the rally where there were speakers, music, and performers. We escorted parties of supporters across the bridge while avoiding the hate and bigotry of the counter protesters. We stayed at the back and created a human barrier while the bigots hurled abuse at us.

Over 1,000 people turned up to support our trans communities. Our trans solidarity rally went without incident, but our greatest challenge was yet to come. The transphobes were once again ready to preach their hatred as another rally was organised by the counter protesters to start within minutes after the end of our rally.

“Officially, our rally is now over. If you want to stay to marshal, it is purely up to you,” an organiser warned us. “What happens from here is out of our control.”

We were effectively countering the counter protesters, and the attendees who were already there were not going to leave without a fight. Within minutes of the preaching, the attendees of the trans solidarity rally roared into life. Everyone was doing what they could to drown out the bigotry. Whistles. Trumpets. Drums. Pots and pans. The sound was deafening.

“They’ve shown respect to your community and listened to what you had to say,” a police officer shouted through the noise. “It’s your turn to show them some respect.”

“They don’t respect us,” I thought to myself. “They want us all dead.”

Once again, Jake and I, alongside the other marshals, stood between the rally attendees and the counter protesters. We tried everything we could to control the crowd. We signalled. We waved. We instructed.

“Turn around!” “Don’t engage!” “Turn around.” “Don’t engage!”

As the gap between the two groups narrowed, Jake reached out his arm to squeeze my hand.

“I love you, cutie.”

“I love you.”